M.e.DUDLGY 


ROLLAND  HEATHE 


TANGLED   THREADS 


A  Tale  of  Mormonism 


Bjk 

(  Ef DUDLEY 


Boston :  Richard  G.  Badger 

(Sorljam 
JpQS 


Copyright  1905  by  M.  E.  DUDLEY 
All  rights  reserved. 


PRINTED  AT 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 

BOSTON,  U.S.  A. 


Bancsoh  Library 

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TANGLED  THREADS 

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A  Tale  of  Mormonism 

J 

O  CWtf/0   F/rj-/ 

O 

( TTitf  scenes  in  this  canto  are  found 

in  the  southern  part  of  Minnesota.) 

J 

>•     The  bright,  June  sun  is  sinking  low ; 

•<      His  slant  rays  cast  a  crimson  glow 

«"*      Upon  a  hamlet  in  the  West :  — 
Full  tenderly  his  colors  rest 
Upon  the  lake,  where,  long  has  rolled 
Each  limpid  wave,  just  touched  with  gold: 
He  tips  the  foam-wreaths  on  the  beach, 
And  brightens  all,  within  his  reach ; 
Once  brightens  all,  then  draws  each  beam 
From  off  the  lake  and  winding  stream : 
Upon  the  hill  he  throws  his  ray, 
And  there  he  bids  adieu  to  Day. 

But  when  the  sun  was  out  of  sight, 
There  yet  remained  a  pleasing  light; 
For  Twilight,  with  her  gentle  hands, 
Clasped  Day  and  Night  with  silver  bands, 
Till  shadows  in  the  valley  crept 
And  thickened,  while  the  sunbeams  slept. 
3 


From  out  the  East  the  rounding  moon, 
Serenely  on  the  blue  lake  shone. 
The  heavy  waves  to  ripples  fell, 
Until  its  troubled  breast  was  still. 
Along  the  shore  the  willow  trees 
Were  gently  stirred  by  passing  breeze ; 
Upon  the  waters  at  their  feet 
The  branch  and  shadow  seemed  to  meet. 

Not  one,  perchance,  had  paused  to  note 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  spot; 
Till  Ida  Glen  from  village  street, 
Its  quiet  sought,  its  cool  retreat. 
She  often  lingered  here  to  dream, 
Until  the  twilight's  warning  beam 
Of  darkness  told ;  but,  ere  the  shade 
Of  night  grew  deep,  and  thickly  laid 
Its  gloom,  she  sought  the  humble  hearth, 
And  Mother  love,  and  Mother  worth. 

Because  her  spirit  loved  the  light, 
Its  mirroring  of  life  was  bright, 
And  found  no  sympathy  in  night. 
'Tis  thus  we  ever  seek  the  place, 
Unconsciously,  where  we  may  trace 
Our  natrue  in  Great  Nature's  face. 
And  souls  like  hers,  unfit  for  strife, 
Forsake  the  world's  highway  of  life, 
To  seek  some  shaded,  sylvan  spot, 
Abiding  there  to  be  forgot. 

Tonight  mused  Ida  till  the  long 

Gray  shadows  lengthened ;  and  the  song 

Of  birds  was  hushed:  —  Thought  seemed 

to  reach 
And  touch  the  darkness  on  Life's  beach. 


IDA  GLENN 


Her  dreams  were  scattered  by  the  beat, 

The  distant  sound  of  horse's  feet, 

Whose  steel-clad  hoofs  the  silence  broke, 

And  flung  the  echoes  that  they  woke. 

A  stranger  from  the  forest  rode 

And  reached  the  spot  where  Ida  stood. 

As,  guided  by  his  master's  will, 

The  horse  beneath  the  trees  stood  still; 

Where  Ida,  hoping  that  the  night 

Would  shield  her  from  the  stranger's  sight, 

Embarrassed  half,  and  half  afraid, 

Had  paused  beneath  their  friendly  shade. 

4  You're  weary  too,  my  well-tried  steed, 
Tonight  the  turf  must  fill  our  need; 
We  rest  here,  till  the  Morn  shall  wake, 
Upon  the  green  shores  of  this  lake." 

No  thought  had  Ida,  now,  of  fear, 
But  only  of  the  stranger  near, 
So  weary  that  the  shore  could  seem 
A  fitting  place  to  sleep  and  dream. 
She  quickly  stepped  from  out  the  shade 
With  modest  greeting,  as  she  said;  — 

"  Sir,  yonder  is  our  humble  home, 
My  parents  both,  would  bid  you  come, 
And  I,  too,  ask  that  you  will  share 
The  stranger's  portion  waiting  there. 
Come,  where  that  lonely  light  doth  burn, 
My  mother  now,  waits  my  return." 

u  Most  thankful  for  your  proffered  aid, 
Your  grateful  debtor  am  I  made. 
So  endless  seemed  the  leafy  wood, 
So  dense  the  silent  solitude, 

5 


I  had  not  known  a  dwelling  near, 
And  thought  tonight  of  resting  here." 

Far  up  the  heavens  with  tender  light, 
The  moon  alone,  suggested  night. 
It  pierced  the  shadows  on  the  shore, 
And  kissed  the  ripples  o'er  and  o'er. 
Day  seemed  to  weep  o'er  Evening's  tomb 
And  gave  Night's  charm  without  its  gloom. 

The  stranger  paused,  entranced,  to  view 
A  scene  to  him  so  fair  and  new. 
Ah,  reader,  come,  behold  him  now, 
With  lifted  hat  to  cool  his  brow; 
A  brow,  that,  like  a  cloud  of  white, 
Could  give  a  shadowing  of  Night. 

As  changes  Summer's  chequered  sky, 
As  oft,  th'  expression  of  his  eye. 
When  list'ning  to  the  wrongs  of  age, 
It  pitied,  while  it  flashed  with  rage. 
Or,  if  some  one  of  youthful  years, 
Would  tell  of  fondest  hopes,  or  fears, 
'Twould  glow  with  feeling,  melt  in  tears. 

A  man  in  shadow  —  of  the  shade : 

In  sunlight  —  there  no  gloom  he  made: 

And  one,  well-skilled  to  read,  could  trace 

A  want  of  firmness  in  his  face : 

It  ever,  when  the  most  at  rest 

A  vague  uncertainty  expressed, 

There  was  a  lack,  too,  half-defined, 

That  seeming  instinct  of  the  mind, 

Which  parts  the  gross  from  the  refined. 

And  Ida,  as  she  saw  him  there, 
The  moonlight  on  his  soft,  dark  hair, 
6 


The  quiet  influence  of  the  place, 

The  worn  look  soothing,  on  his  face, 

Thought  only  of  the  true  and  good, 

Her  guileless  nature  understood. 

Ah,  trusting  girlhood !    woman's  life 

Was  given,  that  she  might  find  its  strife! 

Awhile  the  stranger  viewed  the  spot ; 
His  weariness  seemed  all  forgot. 
Forgotten  were  the  maid  and  steed, 
While  Nature  measured  to  his  need; 
Till  Ida's  timid  voice  and  low, 
His    calm    broke    o'er  —  "You're    weary 

now  —  " 
"Ay,  very  weary,  I  will  go." 

He  smiled  down  at  the  upturned  face, 
And  thought  how  innocent  its  grace. 
Then  lightly  loosed  the  knotted  rein, 
And  slowly  sought  the  road  again. 

A  bright  glow  mounted  to  his  cheek, 
He  did  not  seem  inclined  to  speak; 
But  watched  the  little  cottage  light 
In  silence;  gleaming  through  the  night 
Its  welcome ;  every  sighing  breath, 
That  murmured  of  the  daylight's  death, 
So  sadly  seemed  to  whisper  now, 
Nor  quieted  his  throbbing  brow. 

A  voice  within  was  sadder  yet, 
It  told  of  days  he  would  forget, 
It  told  of  friends  that  he  had  met. 
To  Ida  Glen  the  wind  was  sweet, 
It  bore  life's  perfume  to  her  feet; 
The  rose's  bloom  had  felt  no  blight, 
Her  day  had  not  suggested  night. 

7 


Why  must  the  shadows  lurk  and  wait? 
Why  hath  each  joy  an  opposite? 

Her  father  met  them  at  the  door ; 

A  fondly  chiding  look  he  wore. — 

"  You're  late  tonight,  my  darling  child," — 

He  bent  to  kiss  her  as  she  smiled,  — 

Then  gently  stroked  her  drooping  head, 

And  turning  to  the  stranger  said:  — 

4  Thrice  welcome  to  our  humble  cot ! 
Though  strangers  in  the  surface  sense, 
Our  mutual  needs  are  recompense 
For  foreign  deed,  and  birth,  and  lot. 
Our  settlers  on  the  fair  lake-side, 
In  honest  labor  feel  a  pride ; 
And  stranger  voices  seldom  break 
The  quiet  home-life  by  the  lake. 
Yet  are  we  well  pleased  with  our  lot, 
Nor  would  we  seek  a  richer  spot ; 
So  calm  the  life  the  forest  brings, 
Removed  from  worldly  envyings." 

All  wearily  the  stranger  sighed, 
And  sadly  smiling,  low  replied,  — 

'  You  find  content  in  lowly  cot; 
A  restless  nature  is  my  lot. 
Impatient  o'er  the  world  I  range, 
To  seek  for  happiness  in  change. 
I'm  but  a  slave,  while  seeming  free; 
So  wearisome  seems  life  to  me : 

"  I've  been  on  ocean's  surging  breast; 
To  foreign  climes  in  search  of  rest; 
Alas !  no  country  seemeth  best. 

8 


The  trees,  I've  seen  bud,  thirty  Springs, 
Each  Summer  still  her  tempest  brings." 

"  Still,  gentle  sir,  you  must  have  seen 
The  joy,  in  part,  that  lies  between, 
The  hope,  in  part,  that  keeps  life  green;  — 
Some  loved  one,  who  could  make  you  glad, 
No  human  heart  is  always  sad." 

Some  natures  most  desire  to  roam; 
Some,  find  their  chief  delight  at  home. 
It  proves  in  one,  no  greater  worth, 
If  love  of  quiet  bless  his  birth, 
Than  rests  in  him,  who  holds  his  ease 
Where  discords  harmonize  to  peace. 

But,  wherefore  should  we  moralize, 
When  winter  suns,  and  summer  skies, 
Are  living  lessons  to  our  eyes  ? 
Why  muse  on  these,  and  leave  to  chance, 
The  actors  in  this  life  romance? 

Though  Ida's  home  was  poor,  yet,  there 
Breathed  in  it  such  a  cheerful  air, 
The  wearied  stranger  soon  forgot 
The  bitter  portion  of  his  lot. 
And  when  the  frugal  meal  was  o'er, 
And  all  were  seated  round  once  more, 
He  told  his  wanderings,  their  worth 
Augmented  by  some  glimpse  of  mirth. 

He  told  of  Moscow's  many  towers, 
Of  fair  Etruria's  garden  bowers, 
Till  minutes  wended  into  hours. 
While  they  who  listened,  seemed  to  go 
From  Russia's  never-melting  snow, 
To  sweet  Italia's  summer  bloom:  — 


Or,  gaze  in  woe  upon  the  doom 

Of  glory  past  —  whose  present  gloom 

Fit  marble  raises  for  Greece's  tomb. 

Conversed  they  long,  until  the  hour 
Of  midnight  warned  them  to  retire. 
Then  Ida  brought,  with  woman's  care, 
The  Bible,  for  the  evening  prayer. 
The  moon  had  sunk  behind  the  height, 
Ere    Holland    Heathe    had    said    "  Good 
night." 

Upon  the  wood  deep  shadows  lay, 
And  changed  to  thicker  gloom,  the  gray 
That  settled,  when  the  evening  light 
Gave   faint  suggestion  of  the  night. 
Far  o'er  the  wood-bound  lake's  calm  breast, 
The  same  deep  shade  had  sunk  to  rest. 
Its  waters,  azure  in  the  light, 
Had  taken  color  from  the  night;  — 
But  soon  the  morn  shall  change  its  hue, 
From  deepest  black  to  brightest  blue. 


10 


Canto   Second 

( The  storm  described  occurred 
near  Belle  Plain  in  Southern  Min- 
nesota, three  days'  ride  from  the 
lake  spoken  of  in  Canto  First.} 

A  sudden  quivering  of  the  leaves! 
A  startled  sigh  the  forest  heaves ! 
In  weary  woe  all  nature  grieves ! 
The  singing  shallows  of  the  stream 
Forget  their  music,  and  their  gleam 
The  liquid  mirror  lends  the  gray 
Of  worthless  pebbles ;  —  So  the  day 
Is  but  the  even  gloom  of  night, 
Gilded  and  glorified  with  light. 

Far  westward  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
Like  misty  view  of  broken  beach, 
Dark  rose,  the  distant  hill-tops  o'er, 
A  warning  cloud;  and,  like  the  roar 
Of  deathful  breakers  near  the  shore, 
The  thunder  muttered  too,  of  doom, 
Prolonged  and  dirge-like  in  the  gloom. 

Ere  long  the  sun  withdrew  his  light, 
The  cloud  rolled  dark  to  zenith  height, 
Proclaiming  wild,  tempestuous  night. 
The  forest  foliage,  outlined 
Against  the  sky,  grew  dark;  the  wind 
In  fitful  blasts  blew  wildly,  then 
Grew  calm,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 


On  all,  as  still  the  storm  drew  near, 
When  every  motion  seemed  to  sleep, 
Profound,  prophetic,  pulseless,  deep, 
A  silence  fell,  a  hush  of  fear. 

Beside   a   heavy-voiced  cascade, 

Whose  waters  nature's  dirges  played, 

A  silent  maiden  sat  serene, 

And  viewed  the  grandeur  of  the  scene. 

She  seemed  to  feel  a  solemn  awe, 

Within  the  rising  tempest  saw 

A  fuller  power  than  natural  law. 

Her  soft,  long  hair's  abundant  braid, 
Was  less  of  sunlight  than  of  shade. 
It  served  to  mark  the  queenly  grace 
Of  power,  that  slumbered  in  the  face. 
And,  like  a  drift  of  purest  snow, 
When  softened  by  the  crimson  glow 
Of  sunset  cloud,  imparting  light, 
In  passing,  to  its  perfect  white,  — 
That  fair  face  glistened,  when  the  heart 
Some  deep  emotion  would  impart. 

Her  eyes  were  of  that  changing  hue, 
That's    sometimes    black,    and    sometimes 

blue. 

They  showed  a  soul,  intense  and  deep, 
Oft  silent,  but  ne'er  wrapt  in  sleep. 

Do  spirits  sleep?     Methinks  there  are 
Souls,  passions  do  not  seek  to  mar. 
Some  cold,  proud  natures,  where  we  find 
The  deepest  impulse  ruled  by  mind. — 
Yet,  who  may  tell?     The  outward  calm, 
May  hide  the  fiercer  inward  storm. 

12 


WAIF 


Perchance,  that,  when  men  rest  and  dream, 
Their  souls  pass  o'er  the  turbid  stream ; 
Beyond  the  intense  gloom  and  roar 
Of  waters,  to  the  Farther  Shore, — 
To  mingle  with  the  Angel  throng, 
To  catch  some  strains  of  holy  song, 
Bearing  back,  o'er  the  murky  Tide, 
Only  dreams  from  the  Other  Side. 

When  Nature's  fearful  anger  broke, 
In  loud,  terrific  thunders  spoke, 
When  winds  roared  roughly  from  the  hill, 
While  yet  the  verdured  vale  was  still, 
The  maiden  started  from  her  dream, 
Beside  the  winding,  woodland  stream. 

And,  with  the  present  sense  of  ill, 
The  soul  knows,  when  the  human  will 
Is  basking  in  a  borrowed  light, — 
Like  sunset  cloud,  ere  fold  of  night,  — 
With  wakened  energy's  alarm, 
She  sought  a  shelter  from  the  storm. 

A  small  hut,  close  within  the  wood, 
Safe,  sheltered  by  the  forest  stood. 
Before  the  first  blast  died  away, 
Before  the  tall  elms  ceased  to  sway, 
She  reached  this  meagre,  lone  retreat, 
And  deemed  e'en  such  protection  meet. 

On  wooden  hinges  hung,  the  door 
Was  old  and  heavy;  and  before 
Her  eager  hands  had  pressed  it  to, 
There  fell,  the  startled  forest  through 
A  flash,  a  fearful  crash,  and  then, 
A  long,  low  moan  of  one  in  pain. 

13 


Scarce  heedful  of  the  tempest's  wrath, 
She  quick  retraced  the  narrow  path, 
Till,  through  the  pauses  of  the  rain, 
She  heard  the  wailing  moan  again. 

It  guided  to  a  fallen  oak, 

Whose  boughs  new-rent  by  lightning  stroke, 

Swayed  wildly  in  a  human  fear, 

And  utter  anguish  desolate, 

With  proud  height  hurled  to  level  fate, 

Of  lowly,  living  verdure  near. 

Ah,  well  to  grieve  its  perished  power ! 
And  well  regret  the  saddened  hour, 
When  human  soul  is  called  to  see 
Its  pure  growth  measured  as  this  tree ! 

Our  fate  lies  in  a  blossomed  way: 
A  mere  breath  bears  the  bloom  astray. 
We  view  its  brown,  so  fresh  before, 
And  realize  'tis  fair  no  more. 

Pale   grew  Waif's   cheek  with   fear   and 

dread, 

For  near  lay  one,  who  seemed  now  dead. 
Upon  the  leaves  lay,  here  and  there, 
Dark  drops  of  blood,  on  forehead  fair, 
Upon  the  rich  waves  of  his  hair. 

Smoothed  she  the  passive,  whitened  brow, 
Warm  clasped  the  hand  so  nerveless  now. 
Each  gentle  effort  proved  but  vain ; 
He  would  not  wake  to  life  again. 
Unheeded  rain  drops  fell  at  will, 
O'er  him  so  deathlike,  white  and  still. 

14 


Waif  felt  a  stronger  arm  must  come 
To  bear  the  stricken  stranger  home.  — 
One  last  long  look  of  pity  gave, 
On  whom  her  pity  might  not  save, 
Then  turning  swift  at  Hope's  command, 
She  sought  a  parent's  willing  hand. 

Long  hours  trailed  onward  into  days. 
The  slow-wrought  weeks  to  Autumn  rolled ; 
With  dreamy  promptings,  mellow  haze, 
And  crimson  interspersed  with  gold, 
Ere  Rolland  Heathe's  returning  life, 
Longed  newly  for  the  old-time  strife. 

Not  wholly  were  those  hours  a  void. 
They  something  gave,  in  part  destroyed. 
Waif's  calm,  true  nature,  chaste  as  art, 
Her  untaught  nobleness  of  heart, 
Had  been  their  fuller,  better  part. 

A  whitened  presence,  strong  though  still, 
O'erruled  his  life  and  bound  his  will. 
The  chafing  at  this  home  unsought 
Was  pretense  for  the  hidden  thought, 
That  wished  the  time  too  quickly  run, 
Twice  folded  back  to  be  begun? 

In  dimpling  May  the  robins  love. 
The  Summer  nests  the  cooing  dove. 
September,  with  its  crimson  days, 
Its  liquid  beauty,  lambent  rays, 
Brings  human  hearts  their  human  good, 
To  stand  revealed  and  understood. 

To  Waif  'twas  rapture  new  and  rare;  — 
A  common  perfume  of  the  air 
To  him,  who,  'neath  the  starry  sky, 
Whispered  his  love  and  bade  good-bye. 
15 


Canto   Third 

( The  following  scene  is  in  a  gar- 
ret in  the  city  of  New  York.} 

Beside  a  meagre  couch  of  pain, 
A  watcher  sang  a  plaintive  strain, 
To  one,  who,  with  the  winter  breath, 
Was  breathing  onward  unto  death. 
So  aged,  the  sufferer  could  tell 
Of  carnage,  when  the  century's  swell 
Of  our  staunch  nation,  was  a  tone, 
Perplexed,  discordant,  and  unknown. 

But  now,  this  theme,  so  oft  her  pride, 
Was  broken  as  she  neared  the  Tide. 
A  dull,  still  lethargy  at  last 
Revealed  the  future,  veiled  the  past. 
An  uttered  word,  a  gasp,  a  moan, 
And  Manah  wailed  in  grief  alone. 

What  need  to  echo  of  the  woe 
The  human  heart  must  feel  to  know? 
The  coffin,  ent'ring  at  the  door, 
The  dear  one,  gone  forevermore. 
The  cold  sod,  beating  at  the  grave, 
The  weary  turning  back,  where,  save 
A  memory,  we  are  all  bereft. 

So  vivid  is  the  present  pain, 
It  permeates  the  life ;  the  brain 
Reels  onward  moaning — " Nothing  left!" 
17 

2 


Poor  Manah,  on  the  dreary  day, 
They  laid  her  cherished  dead  away, 
Alone,  she  climbed  the  attic  stair, 
Surveyed  her  humble  home,  so  bare 
Of  needful  comfort;  —  as  she  heard, 
In  fancy,  every  loving  word 
The  lost  one  gave,  of  tender  truth, 
To  guide  her  weird  and  wayward  youth, 
She  hurled  her  anguish  at  such  fate, 
In  one  fierce  cry,  and  passionate. 

Too  tired,  at  last,  to  longer  weep, 
The  sick  soul  found  a  balm  in  sleep. 
'Twas  not  a  dreamless  slumber,  but 
The  eyelids  heavy,  drooped  and  shut. 
The  sunlight,  through  the  dusty  glass, 
Crept  out  to  let  a  phantom  pass ; 
Which  measured  out  a  dream,  so  fraught 
With  power,  it  chained  the  waking  thought. 

At  lonely  midnight,  Manah  rose, 

Too  anxious  to  again  repose ; 

And,  more  her  restless  nerves  to  still, 

Than  following  a  settled  will, 

She  strove  to  quite  confirm  her  doubt, 

By  seeking  what  was  pointed  out. 

An  ancient  mirror,  cracked  and  small, 
Was  hanging  on  the  broken  wall. 
The  candle's  red,  uncertain  flame, 
Scarce  shaped  the  shadows  as  they  came. 
The  image,  that  the  mirror  held, 
Was  indistinct,  yet,  it  repelled 
Poor  Manah;  there  the  lonely  eyes, 

18 


MANAH 


So  liquid  with  a  vague  surprise; 

Their  splendor,  while  compelled  to  weep, 

Half  hidden  in  their  inner  deep. 

The  jar  of  her  impatient  feet, 
The  passion  of  a  heart's  quick  beat, 
Perchance  a  fate  —  whatever  the  spell, 
The  loosened  mirror,  crashing,  fell: 

Among  its  scattered  fragments  lay 
Some  written  papers,  aged  and  gray. 
She  grasped  them,  lost  to  all  things,  save 
This  wondrous  message  from  the  grave. 
With  eager  hands,  the  clasp  unsealed, 
And  held  a  mystery  revealed : 

The  faded  lines  she  read,  compelled 
A  meaning,  that  but  feebly  caught 
The  inner  consciousness  of  thought;  — 
Nor  compassed  half  that  meaning  held. 

Her  birth — -'a   far  and  sunny  land  — 
A  tender  parent's  last  bequest  — 
Of  fair  possessions  in  the  West, 
Another  held  with  recreant  hand;  — 
These  thoughts   she   grasped,   and,   trem- 
bling knew, 

Her  triumph  from  a  vision  grew : 
Then  Manah  read  the  late  mourned  dead, 
But  stood  to  her  in  parent's  stead. 

The  hand  of  Dawn  unsealed  the  East. 
New  day  the  city's  din  increased; 
Still  Manah  sat  in  anxious  thought, 
So  tangled  were  the  threads  she  sought. 
Faint  Memory's  suggestions  came, 
And  called  her  by  her  childhood's  name. 
Again  the  Past  let  fall  one  gleam 


Of  shaded  walk  and  gurgling  stream, 
That  she  had  cherished  as  a  dream. 

Then  Manah  rose,  amazed  and  stilled; 
Astonished  at  her  dream  fulfilled. 
Overjoyed,  yet  fearful,  scarce  convinced, 
Bewildered,  and  yet  recompensed. 
Beholding,  in  its  untold  worth, 
The  secret  of  her  life  and  birth: 

Who  dares  assert  one  human  soul 
Beyond  the  power  of  that  control, 
Where  human  will  divines  events, 
Submissive  to  God's  sapience: 

A  power,  guiding,  shapes  our  course; 
Decrees  each  nature,  and  its  source; 
Restrains  nor  limits  not  its  force. 
We  make  the  current  slow  or  strong; 
We  cherish  or  refuse  the  wrong. 


20 


Canto  Fourth 

(After  a  year's  absence  Rolland  re- 
turns,  and  he  and  Waif  are  married.} 

,      A    STRANGE    NEWCOMER 

•The  Spring's  capricious,  maiden  feet, 
Had  wandered  to  the  Summer's  heat. 
The  season's  matronage  and  pride, 
Seemed  fitting  symbols  for  the  bride, 
Who  wore  the  fragrant  orange  wreath, 
And  pledged  her  faith  to  Rolland  Heathe. 

Waif  held  her  spirit's  spotless  whole, 
Criterion  for  her  husband's  soul. 
Burned  incense  at  an  altar,  where 
The  censer  and  the  lights  were  fair, 
And  felt  no  lack  of  virtue  there. 

Go,  Spirit  of  the  evil  heart, 
And  rend  Deceit's  false  veil  apart! 
Come,  Angel  of  the  holy  breath, 
To  comfort,  ere  the  wife  shall  know 
The  measure  of  her  cup  of  woe, 
The  bitterness  of  life  in  death: 

Or  yet  its  yearly  course  was  run, 
The  earth,  opaque,  around  the  sun, 
A  stranger,  clad  in  garb  of  woe, 
Came  once,  at  twilight,  to  abide:  — 
With  raven  hair  and  liquid  eyes, 

21 


Which  seemed  the  inner  thought  to  hide, 
In  rapture  of  their  full  surprise. 

In  bitterness  of  wrath  and  blame, 

The  stranger  proudly  spoke  her  name. — 

u  I  came  to  bend  the  haughty  will, 

The  pride  that  wealth,  dishonor  give; 

To  show  the  recompense  of  ill, 

To  prove  my  right,  henceforth,  to  live ! 

"A  vagrant,  wand'ring  on  the  earth, 
In  dreams,  God  showed  at  evening  hour, 
This  home,  all  mine,  by  right  of  birth, 
Yours,  only,  through  usurping  power. 

"  If  written  proofs  you  wish,  to  show 
How  well  your  history  I  know, 
The  law  within  my  hand  behold, 
That  gives  me  right  to  land  and  gold ! 

"  My  father,  in  your  father's  care, 
At  death,  placed  me,  his  only  heir. 
Made  warden  of  her  lib'ral  dower, 
Come,  gradually,  the  thirst  for  power ; 
And  you,  sir,  fell  through  its  control, 
With  murder  written  on  your  soul ! 

"  Thrown  grossly  to  the  care  of  one, 
Whose  life  was  dimmed,  ere  mine  begun, 
To  keep,  and  clothe,  and  hold  within 
Due  bounds;  familiar  with  world's  sin  — 
Ay,  nurtured  in  its  school  of  crime, 
To  feel  its  lessons  for  all  time! 

"  December's  roughness  filled  the  air, 
Dread  Winter's  sorrow,  blank  and  bare, 
To  Penury's  children,  brought  no  cheer :  — 


MANAH 


A  hut,  a  crust,  a  heart-wrung  tear, 
A  kindling  scoff,  a  drunkard's  bier. 

"  Go  I  coward,  go !    I  envy  not 

The  sunshine  in  your  chosen  lot! 

No   knife-drawn   blood  your   hands   may 

stain, 
Your  nature  bears  the  brand  of  Cain!  " 

Though  shocked  by  doubt  and  grieved  by 

shame, 

Waif  chided  not,  nor  uttered  blame, 
The  agony,  the  pride's  fierce  smart, 
Lay  buried  in  her  sad,  true  heart. 
Knew  Holland  Heathe,  base,  weak  in  will, 
Dishonored,   but  —  her  husband  still! 

Her  life,  her  love  were  stricken,  yet 
'Twas  death  to  feel,  death  to  forget. 
Forget !     O,  God,  is  woman's  soul 
A  sepulcher?     Forever  must 
Its  longings  languish  into  dust, 
With  silence,  silence  over  all? 

With  pallid  cheek,  and  lip  compressed, 
And  eyes  that  trembled  in  unrest, 
In  voice  grown  strangely  low  and  weak, 
For  Waif,  did  Rolland  dare  to  speak. 

uOn  me,  rest  all  the  dire  disgrace; 
The  penalty  of  evil  life. — 
Spare  her,  I  love,  my  precious  wife ; 
Nor  bring  her  future  face  to  face, 
With  what  of  mine,  her  guileless  sight 
Hath  never  known;  —  Would  God  tonight 
My  soul,  as  hers,  stood  pure  and  white." 

23 


"  Sir,  sorrow  that  you  went  astray, 

Can  never  wear  the  crime  away. 

And  thou  dost  love  her?     I  would  know 

If  what  we  truly  love  below, 

We  injure ;  can  we  smile  and  smile, 

Betray  and  calumnize  the  while? 

"  Yet  life,  yet  deeds,  have  each  confessed, 
We  deepest  wound  those  loved  the  best. 
Strange  human  logic,  to  have  found 
We  love  those  deepest  whom  we  wound." 


24 


Canto  Fifth 

u 

{Again  a  wanderer!  —  Illness  of 
Rolland  Heathe  !  —  Westward  !  ) 

A  fortnight's  suns  arose  and  set, 
And  Waif  and  Rolland  had  not  met; 
For  distance  measured  many  leagues 
Between  the  sorrow-stricken  wife, 
Who  saw  no  light  in  brightest  day, 
And  him,  she  deemed  her  richer  life, 
Till  Justice  bared  the  bold  intrigues 
Of  one  so  loved  and  gone  astray. 

If  love  could  but  the  forfeit  pay, 
All  error  of  the  loved  one  hide, 
We  could  not  seek  the  Cross  today, 
A  loving  Saviour  had  not  died! 

Fatigued  with  travel,  dust,  and  heat, 
As  Noon's  swift,  fevered  pulses  beat, 
Behold  a  traveler,  once  more, 
At  Jacob  Glen's  neat  cottage  door. 

Familiar  are  the  form  and  face, 
The  high-bred  mien,  the  haughty  grace, 
Beneath  whose  mask  a  sorrow  lies, 
Well  hidden  from  all  careless  eyes. 

"A  shelter  from  the  rising  blast, 
Safe  refuge  till  the  storm  is  past, 

25 


My  need  now  is;  —  methinks  before 
I've  knocked  and  entered  at  this  door." 

uAy,  welcome,  sir,  you  could  not  find 
A  humbler  home,  nor  freer  mind." 

List,  Mother,  can  you  hear  the  cry 

Of  hungry  birdlings  in  the  nest, 

The  while  the  serpent's  eager  eye 

Is  watching  o'er  their  place  of  rest?  — 

The  parent  birds  —  canst  thou  not  hear 

Their  startled  cries  of  hate  and  fear? 

O,  human  Mother,  welcome  not 
This  serpent  to  home's  hallowed  spot ! 
The  danger,  e'en  a  bird  would  flee, 
Canst  thou  not  hear?    Canst  thou  not  see? 

O,  Mothers  love  your  children  more  ! 
They  need  it  much ;  Life's  misty  shore 
Lies  so  uncertainly  before. 
JT\s  not  the  love  that  clothes  and  feeds, 
That  ministers  to  all  our  needs. 

We  may  not  do  the  thing  we  choose ; 

We  pray  to  take  and  still  refuse 

The  thing  we  pray  for;  Rachel's  guest 

Asked  only  for  a  place  of  rest, 

Until  the  morrow's  golden  sun, 

Had  broken  Night,  and  Day  begun :  — 

But  morning  brought  the  fevered  brain, 
The  quickened  pulse,  the  throb  of  pain, 
Delirium's  kindly  mantle  threw 
Oblivion  o'er  the  woes  he  knew. 
And,  list'ning  to  the  muttered  word, 
The  watcher  knew  the  wand'rer  heard 
Of  childhood's  happy  breeze  and  bird. 
26 


0,  ill-used  Nature !  can  you  show 
The  votaries  of  vice,  that  know 
No  law  of  thine,  compassion  yet? 
Allow  them  briefly  to  forget? 

Ah,  why  should  mortals  mourn  and  weep, 
If  death  means  but  an  endless  sleep? 
With  lifted  hand,  and  bated  breath, 
We  comfort  grief  with  such  pretense 
As  — '  Weep  not,  'tis  God's  providence ; ' 
And  blame  him  for  our  dear  one's  death.' 

Disease  is  but  the  brand  of  Cain 
For  broken  law,  its  penance,  pain. 
The  only  providence  it  shows, 
Physician's  fees,  and  funeral  woes. 

Kind  Nature,  gentle  as  a  breath, 
Wooed  Holland  Heathe  away  from  death. 
The  raging  fever  cooled,  and  stilled 
The  anxious  pulse;  for,  unfulfilled 
His  life-work,  and  we  mortals  must 
Our  part  perform,  unjust  or  just. 

How  slowly  to  the  grief-bound  heart, 
The  countless  hours  of  life  depart! 
The  white-robed  Hope  on  mountain  height, 
Is  only  star-crowned;  while  the  light, 
Intense  of  Sorrow,  blinds  the  eye, 
And  tortures,  till  we  pray  to  die. 

Thus,  Rolland,  as  his  weakened  brain 
Returned  to  consciousness  of  pain, 
More  hopeless  than  the  shackled  slave, 
Drew  solace  from  an  open  grave. 
Thrice  sad,  when  Joy's  triumphant  call, 
Resembles  most,  a  bier  and  pall! 

27 


But  kindly  hand,  and  willing  heart, 
Will  seldom  fail  to  soothe  the  smart 
Of  pungent  sorrow;  —  Rachel's  calm, 
And  Jacob's  earnest  zeal  and  warm, 
With  Ida's  tender  care  and  true, 
The  smile  returned,  and  friendship  grew. 

All  things  we  cling  to,  on  the  earth, 
Have  day  of  death,  as  day  of  birth. 
When  June  had  dimpled  from  the  May, 
Though  many  pleadings  bade  him  stay, 
Did  Holland  clasp  each  friendly  hand, 
And  hasten  to  the  Western  land, 
Across  Dakota's  grassy  plain, 
To  Utah's  lakes  and  fields  of  grain, 
And  paused,   where   Rocky  Mountains 

pressed 
The  promise  of  a  long-sought  rest. 


28 


Canto  Sixth 

(An  Indian  legend  of  Lost  Island  Lake  in 
Western  Iowa.     Waifs  home.  ) 

The  hills  were  purp'ling  in  the  shade 
That  crimson-fingered  Twilight  laid 
So  tenderly  on  distant  height, 
To  thrill,  and  thicken  into  night. 

The  blue  lake,  green-fringed,  in  the  vale, 

Had  never  known  another  sail, 

Than  water-lilies,  ripple-kissed, 

Or  fleecy  folds  of  tender  mist: 

And  whitest  rays  of  western  moon, 

Had  ever  kindly  shone  upon 

The  Indian,  as  he  glided  through 

The  blue  waves,  in  his  birch  canoe,  — 

To  East,  where,  circled  by  their  play, 

Caressed  as  by  a  lover  true, 

An  island,  like  an  emerald  lay. 

The  simple  Native  proudly  trod 
For  ages,  on  its  unturned  sod, 
And  gave  soul-worship  to  his  God, 
To  Nature,  —  all  the  God  he  knew. 

A  gloom  soon  rested  deep  and  still, 
O'er  lake  and  island,  glen  and  hill. 
So  close,  so  dense,  one  seemed  to  feel 
The  darkness,  with  the  outer  sense 
Of  touch;  a  tribute-pall,  intense 
Of  human  sorrow  —  and,  its  seal! 
29 


The  wigwam's  fire  blazed  high  and  bright, 
A  thousand  held  their  feast  that  night. 
There  roamed  the  Maid  with  supple  grace 
Inherent  in  the  Indian  race:  — 
With  small,  brown  hands,  and  jetty  hair, 
An  untaught  child,  with  soul  as  fair. 

The  Brave,  by  simple  right  divine, 
A  monarch,  with  the  earth  his  throne, 
Full-statured  in  his  power  grown, 
With  glance  and  bearing  leonine. 

The  rude  wild  feast  was  at  its  height; 
The  dun  hours  measured  to  midnight, 
When  clear  and  full  and  long  and  bold, 
The  thunder,  like  a  death-bell,  tolled! 

The  noisy  mirth  was  hushed  in  awe 
Of  majesty,  above  his  law. 
One  moment,  as  with  bated  breath, 
We  watch  the  sable  god  of  Death, 
Or,  stand  again  in  deeper  dread, 
Beside  the  coffin  of  our  dead. 

So  Nature  paused,  and  reverence  did, 
Above  the  flower-strewn  coffin-lid. 
Then  slowly,  slowly,  as  she  must 
Give  solemnly  her — '  Dust  to  dust;' 
Sank  downward,  downward  out  of  sight, 
The  Island,  from  the  mourning  night! 

Long  tossed  the  lake  its  troubled  breast, 
Like  human  anguish,  seeking  rest. 
And  e'er  its  startled  throb  had  ceased, 
Some  stray  beams,  from  the  mottled  East, 
Proclaimed  the  dawn;  and  nevermore 
Shall  sunbeam  kiss  the  Island  shore. 

3° 


And  never  shall  the  red  man  wake 
The  echoes  on  Lost  Island  Lake. 

Two  centuries  with  heavy  tread, 
Give  only  memories  of  its  dead; 
Along  its  villaged  banks  tonight, 
Gleam  many  a  treasured  cottage  light. 

One  mansion  rises  from  its  shore, 
Where  whispering  pines  forevermore, 
Keep  sentinel  beside  its  door. — 

Secluded  doth  the  mansion  stand 

A  castle  in  Iowa's  land. 

Its  inmates  Waif  and  Mabel  sweet, 

Whose  infant  presence  came  to  meet 

The  Mother's  anguish ;  and  to  heal 

The  wounded  heart  with  love's  pure  seal. 

And  Manah's  willful  hands  provide 
This  bounty  for  the  love  of  those, 
Whom  Rolland,  deeming  them  her  foes, 
And  pleading  for,  had  been  denied. 

'Tis  Winter ;  undulating  lies 
The  drifted  snow,  in  frozen  waves; 
Or,  like  a  plain  of  marbled  graves, 
It  glistens  'neath  the  starry  skies. 

Full  many  midnight  moons  shall  wane, 
In  crescent  new,  shall  rise  again ;  — 
Unnumbered  eves  shall  fall  and  fade, 
But,  never  shall  a  home-tree's  shade, 
Environ  in  its  loving  mirth, 
A  purer  peace,  or  sweeter  worth, 
Than  rests,  with  undisturbed  delight, 
Upon  the  mansion-house  tonight. 

31 


Waif's  old-time  playmate,  Walter  Leigh, 
With  blue-eyed  Mabel  on  his  knee, 
Bends  low  his  handsome  head,  to  please 
The  dainty,  dimpled  hands,  that  seize 
With  noisy  shouts  of  childish  glee, 
The  rings  of  sunny  hair,  that  roll 
O'er  forehead  broad,  an  aureole. 
Moon,  smile  on  land,  sun,  glint  on  sea, 
You  hold  no  fairer  sight  to  me ! 

Waif's  trust,  like  wind-razed  vine,  had 

grown 

To  need  a  strength  beyond  its  own. 
Like  warp  to  woof  had  Walter's  care 
Been  mingled,  till  she  saw  not  where 
The  broken  threads  were  clasped ;  yet,  knew 
The  comfort  that  her  nature  drew 
From  his ;  too  weary  to  descry 
The  source,  whence  came  the  full  supply. 

'Tis  thus  we  press  to  fevered  lip 
The  cooling  draught,  and  as  we  dip, 
Heed  not  the  fountain,  whence  it  comes, 
Nor,  whence  the  devious  streamlet  runs. 


Canto  Seventh 

(Another  thread  in  Rolland's  life  ! 
A  withered  rose  from  Ida's  lot  /  ) 

The  years  have  passed;  across  the  deep, 
In  lands,  where  ancient  heroes  sleep, 
In  London's  crowded  hall  there  stands 
An  earnest  speaker,  who  commands 
Allegiance  to  a  Modern  Shrine;  — 
A  new  religion  —  and  —  divine. 

In  fervid,  vivid  words  he  paints, 
The  City  of  the  Latter  Saints ! 
Its  Temple,  where  the  Mighty  sit, 
Communing  with  the  Infinite.  — 
Its  future  glories,  manifold, 
Its  homes  of  love,  its  streets  of  gold,  — 
"O,  Eden  fair!     O,  City  free! 
New  Zion,  by  the  Western  Sea !  " 

With  lofty  words,  that  seem  to  ring 
Conviction,  in  the  truths  they  bring, 
The  Mormon  Elder  seeks  to  win 
His  hearers,  from  old  paths  of  sin. 

Dear  reader,  you  can  surely  trace 
Familiar  outlines  in  that  face :  — 
The  pliant  mouth,  the  brilliant  eye, 
Whose  haughty  glances  still  defy 
The  love  of  Heaven,  the  light  of  earth, 
To  yield  a  perfect,  human  worth. 

V   '  33 


A  Mormon  Elder !  hid  beneath 

Such  sanctity,  is  Holland  Heathe ! 

A  Missionary  of  the  Sect, 

Our  nation  passes  with  a  smile ; 

Its  vile  pollution  left  unchecked, 

Shall  seal  our  homes  with  blood,  erstwhile. 

Four  times  had  Holland  crossed  the  sea, 
Bold  bearer  of  this  Ministry; 
Each  time  New  Zion's  hills  he  sought, 
With  hundreds,  that  his  creed  had  caught. 

And  now,  kind  reader,  come  with  me 
To  Zion,  by  the  Western  Sea. 
To  Mormon  Holland's  paradise, 
His  temple,  and,  its  sacrifice. 

There,  live  their  degraded  lives, 

Behold  his  hapless,  so-called  wives. 

It  cannot  be !  — yet,  look  again ! 

That  fair  form,  you  had  worshiped,  when 

It  bore  the  name  of  Ida  Glen ! 

'Tis  she ;  we  grieve  to  tell  you  more. 
She  loved  the  sullied  hand  that  bore 
Its  venom  to  her  father's  door. 
For  deeds  of  love,  gave  woe  and  shame 
That  burns  an  honest  cheek  to  name. 

Since  Ida  chose  this  wayward  lot, 
Four  years  are  with  the  things  that  were. 
Pass  backward  o'er  that  time  with  me, 
And  sadly  will  I  show  to  thee, 
How  Holland,  with  fair,  written  thought, 
Enticed  her  from  her  parent's  cot. 
34 


'Twas  springtime ;  every  budding  tree 
Was  swaying  to  the  song  of  birds;  — 
A  message,  from  New  Zion's  Sea, 
Came,  couched  in  earnest,  passioned  words, 
That  told  his  fervent  need  of  her. 

"  I  cast  aside  our  social  curse, 
That  seals  a  human  will  to  one, 
For  love,  free  as  the  universe, 
Enfolding  all,  and  binding  none ! 

"  The  world's  views  yet  are  in  their  youth. 

I  live  a  martyr  to  this  truth, 

That  God's  laws,  higher  are,  than  Men's, 

I  stand  upon  His  eminence, 

And  rise  above  the  motley  horde, 

A  chosen  prophet  of  the  Lord. 

"  Wilt  thou  leave  all  and  walk  with  me, 
In  Zion,  by  the  Western  Sea  ? 
From  Heaven,  thy  love  hath  been  revealed, 
By  God's  own  hand,  this  message  sealed." 

With  words  like  these,  did  Rolland  seek 
To  gain  the  trusting  heart,  and  weak; 
Until  o'er-burdened  tenderness, 
Responded  to  his  pleading  —  "yes," 
Obedient  to  Love's  consciousness. 

Religion !  thy  base  cloak  can  show 
More  hues  of  blood,  more  human  woe, 
Than  all  the  annaled  crimes  we  know ! 

Poor  Ida,  days  all  false,  uncouth, 
Enveloped  in  a  mask  of  truth, 
Have  added  years,  and  taken  youth. 
The  feeble  step,  the  pallid  cheek, 

35 


The  saddened  tones,  the  downcast  eye, 
The  silent,  patient  bearing,  meek, 
Are  answers  to  her  prayer  to  die. 

Who  dares  to  call  a  sin  her  grief, 
To  speak  it  punishment,  and  just, 
Would  curse  the  hand  that  gave  relief, 
Or,  trail  God's  mercy  in  the  dust ! 

In  spotless  robes  at  his  right  hand, 
Her  purchased  innocence  shall  stand; 
Her  weakness,  lie  forevermore, 
A  blood-stained  crime,  at  Holland's  door. 

Frail  woman !  suppliant  to  a  Chance ! 
The  gild  or  gloom  of  Circumstance, 
Made  victim  to  your  heart's  romance! 
Your  aims  encompassed  in  a  sphere 
Revolving  'round  a  smile  or  tear. 
With  what  idolatry  you  hold 
A  passion  to  your  trusting  heart ! 
The  while  you  quiver  with  the  dart, 
That  Love  sends  with  his  shining  gold ! 
Ay,  Love  that  injures  more  than  hate, 
And  scorns  what  it  leaves  desolate ! 


Canto  Eighth 

(The  return  voyage!     A   wreck!     Ida's 
death!  ) 

Not  yet  had  roused  the  autumn  gale, 
Ere  Holland,  for  the  West,  set  sail. 
The  ship  held  many  an  eager  one, 
Who  wept,  yet  wished  the  voyage  run. 
With  him,  they  journeyed  to  the  goal, 
That  promised  joy  to  every  soul. 

At  last  the  ship  with  graceful  sweep, 
Moved  outward  to  the  boundless  deep. 
With  lingering  clasp,  and  tear-wet  eye, 
The  loved,  on  shore,  had  said  —  u  Good- 
bye!" 

Each  day  the  vessel  swept  the  sea, 
Brought  nearer,  home  and  liberty, 
To  sad  hearts,  throbbing  from  the  pain, 
Of  endless  toil,   and  meager  gain: 
The  ties  of  home,  too  newly  rent, 
To  feel  the  sting  of  discontent; 
So,  smiles  were  bright,  and  hopes  were 

high, 
With  quiet  sea,  and  cloudless  sky. 

One  sun-bright  day  gave  o'er  her  light; 
Wild,  storm-tossed  billows  met  their  sight. 
Dread  Night,  in  terror,  closed  again, 
His  somber  mantle  o'er  the  Main. 

37 


The  tempest  raged!  the  wild  winds  blew! 
Swift  flashed  the  lightning  on  the  view ! 
Incessantly  the  thunder  roared! 
Unceasingly  the  torrents  poured  1 

The  noble  vessel  on  the  wave, 
Reels  onward,  while  the  billows  rave; 
Or,  lashing,  as  in  fury,  rise 
In  mockery  of  angry  skies ! 

O,  ocean !  now  with  swelling  wave, 
How  many  to  a  watery  grave 
Hast  wooed,  when,  on  thy  dimpled  breast, 
The  rippled  waves  but  promised  rest ! 
E'en  now,  they  rush  upon  that  shore, 
In  thunder,  where  they  throbbed  before ! 

Aboard  the  Raven,  thro'  the  gloom, 
The  gallant  crew  beheld  their  doom. 
The  master's  voice  betrayed  no  fear, 
His  orders  rang,  full,  loud,  and  clear. 
The  weak  drew  courage  from  his  word, 
And  ceased  the  panic,  as  they  heard. 
Thrice  dashed  the  brave  ship  on  the  rock, 
Recoiling,  shattered  by  each  shock, 
Down,  down,  away  from  tempest's  roar, 
The  brave  ship  sunk,  to  rise  no  more ! 

The  morning  dawned ;  the  sun  arose ; 
And  shone  on  nature  in  repose. 
There  naught  remained  on  sea  or  shore, 
To  tell  what  brave  ships  were  no  more ; 
Save  here  and  there  a  timber  rent, 
Before  the  awful  gale  was  spent. 

38 


The  dome  above,  was  deepest  blue ; 
The  ocean  calmly  rolled  below. 
On  distant  shore  no  wreck  was  cast, 
All  looked  serene,  as  if  a  blast 
Had  never  o'er  the  waters  passed. 
The  spent  waves,  gliding  to  the  shore, 
Of  rest  told,  as  they  had  before. 

Ah,  Rolland,  with  the  Cross  defied, 
How  fares  it  with  thy  soul  today? 
For  Christ's  blood,  thou  hast  so  denied, 
Has  ocean  washed  thy  guilt  away? 


New  Zion's  hills  are  capped  with  snow. 
The  Jordan  lies  enchained  below. 
The  maniac  winds,  in  revel,  seize 
And  toss  the  boughs  of  leafless  trees. 

'Tis  night;  the  city's  lights  are  fled, 
Except  by  dying  one,  or  dead. 
With  timid  Ida,  lone  and  white, 
Death  plights  his  solemn  troth  tonight. 
No  ear  to  hear  her  startled  moan  — 
"  O,  Heaven !  Must  I  die  alone? 
Dear  Father,  pity,  from  above ! 
Alone,  no  hope,  no  light,  no  love ! 
Fond,  tender  Mother,  true  and  mild, 
Wouldst  thou  forsake  thy  dying  child? 
Loved  Father,  canst  thou  let  me  go, 
Without  one  touch  to  soothe  this  woe? 

UO,  Rolland!  thou,  too,  hast  forgot, 
Who  gave  the  anguish  of  my  lot ! 
Come !  come !  O,  come  from  foreign  shore, 
And  hold  me  to  your  heart  once  more ! 

39 


"  Dear  Lord,  to  him,  in  mercy,  show 
Compassion  he  denies  to  me :  — 
O,  Death !  thou  art  my  liberty ! 
Thy  touch  hath  made  me  glad  to  go !  " 

Ah,  sad,  betrayed  one,  soon  to  know, 
Thy  base  betrayer  lieth  low. 
The  sea  his  sepulcher,  and  deep 
And  endless  is  his  somber  sleep ; 
Thy  prayer  for  him,  a  record  be, 
Of  woman's  grief  and  constancy. 
Perchance  its  strength  will  rise  and  meet 
Stern  Justice,  at  the  Judgment  Seat; 
Forgiveness  gain,  tho\  lone  and  far, 
Shall  rise  his  pure,  Redemption  Star. 

The  wild  night  passed;  dawn  came  again; 
The  light  crept  through  the  frosted  pane, 
And  paused  above  the  death-closed  lid 
Aghast,  or,  quivered  as  it  hid 
Its  startled  beams  within  the  gloom, 
Laid  in  far  corners  of  the  room. 

Sad  fate  indeed,  alone  to  die ! 
To  be  a  wronged,  neglected  wife ! 
But,  sadder,  in  this  world  of  strife, 
To  be  alone  —  alone  in  life, 
While  thronging  multitudes  pass  by ! 

Come,  look  upon  that  form  of  grace ; 
The  molded  limb,  the  child-like  face, 
The  curving  lip,  the  forehead  fair, 
The  silken  curls  of  gold-brown  hair; 
The  taper  fingers  soft  and  small,  — 
Then  fold  the  white  shroud  over  all ; 
Ay,  fold  the  white  shroud  over  all. 

40 


O'er  grief,  o'er  wrong,  its  pure  robe  sweep, 
And  leave  her  in  this  tranquil  sleep ; 
With  snowy  bloom  upon  her  breast, 
The  broken  heart  beneath,  at  rest. 
One  low  prayer  breathe  o'er  falling  sod, 
And  trust  her  world-called  guilt  to  God ! 


Behold  a  vision !  black  and  dread, 
Grew  all  the  heavens ;  and  the  tread 
Of  many  mourners,  smote  the  ear; 
While  jet  plumes  waved  above  a  bier; 
And  dirges  rolled,  and  millions  gave 
Obeisance  at  an  open  grave. 

Then  mighty  murmurs  rose  and  swelled 

To  tumult,  where  the  coffin  held 

In  silent  state,  yet  lowrly  head, 

The  Honor  of  our  Country  —  dead! 

Polygamy's  insidious  dart, 
Had  been  the  cancer  at  the  heart, 
That  dragged  a  nation  to  the  gloom 
Of  sables,  o'er  lost  Honor's  tomb. 

Columbia's  rulers  calmly  smiled 

To  usward,  crying — "  Weep  not,  child! 

Mourn  not  a  Nation's  honor  slain, 

For,  surely  it  shall  rise  again !  " 

y  Bancroft  Ltbrmry 

Ay,  when  the  future  years  shall  slay 
The  idols  of  a  gross  Today. 


Canto  Ninth 

(A  happy  lot  for  Waif  and  Walter  ! 
Manah's  new  home!  ) 

The  dying  sunlight  kissed  the  trees, 
Whose  foliage  quivered  in  the  breeze; 
It  gave  the  thorn's  thick  bloom  of  snow, 
A  softer  and  a  purer  glow. 

From  zenith,  down  the  western  sky, 
There  swept  a  cloud  of  crimson  dye, 
Whose  beauty  for  an  instant  grew 
To  gild  the  Twilight's  steady  blue. 

Two  lovers,  'neath  the  Maples'  shade, 
In  silence  watched  the  daylight  fade ; 
While  song-birds  twittered  from  each  tree, 
Their  evening  lay  of  ecstasy, 
To  those  two  —  Waif,  and  Walter  Leigh. 

Fair  Waif,  in  quiet  beauty,  stood 

A  type  of  perfect  womanhood. 

The  girlish  loveliness  had  fled, 

But  gave  a  dignity  instead. 

One  skilled  to  read  her  earnest  face, 

The  touch  of  sorrow  deep,  might  trace; 

That  had  not  seared  nor  heart  nor  mind, 

But  only  strengthened  and  refined: 

For,  still  the  outlines  smooth  and  fair, 

As  in  her  maidenhood  they  were. 

43 


Her  soft  dark  hair  was  always  dressed 
The  way  that  Walter  liked  it  best. 
The  smooth  brow,  circled  by  its  shade, 
Then  folded  backward,  where  it  laid 
A  coronal  of  massive  braid. 

The  lovers  watched  the  Day's  farewell, 
Till,  down  the  silence  broke  and  fell 
The  spoken  thought,  like  vesper  bell.  — 

'  'Tis  nature's  sunset ;  but,  its  grace 
To  us,  Waif,  is  an  omen  fair: 
The  latest  sunbeam  kissed  your  face, 
And  left  a  touch  of  glory  there. 
Our  hearts  are  one,  your  hand  is  free! 
Henceforth,  in  perfect  harmony, 
We  blend  the  sounds  that  thrill  the  sense, 
In  love's  own  skilled  unisonance." 

"  O,  Walter,  I  deny  indeed, 
Allegiance  to  my  old-time  creed, 
That  he  who  once  hears  love's  refrain, 
Can  never  truly  love  again ! 
That  other  tones  may  charm  the  heart, 
But  ne'er  his  liquid  lute  impart 
Ecstatic  sounds,  that  thrill,  and  float 
No  tangled  or  discordant  note. 

uThis  was  belief;  yet,  now,  I  feel 
Sweet  measures  o'er  my  senses  steal. 
Some  old,  familiar  sounds  they  bring, 
As  pure  as  virgin  airs  of  Spring. 

"  I  fear  to  hold  this 'newer  trust, 
Or  shield  the  circumstance  that  gave 
My  past  belief  an  unmourned  grave ;  — 
I  cannot  requiem  its  dust." 

44 


WAIF  AND  WALTER  LEIGH 


"  'Twere  wise  to  change  for  larger  truth, 
One's  creed;  nor  hold  the  bigot's  plan, 
To  keep  upon  full-statured  man, 
The  jacket  quite  outgrown  in  youth. 
But,  worse  faith  that,  which  we  confess 
Must  dwarf  the  man  to  fit  the  dress !  " 

''  Yet,  Walter,  mankind  still  must  live 
The  truths  its  fallen  centuries  give. 
Your  doctrines,  in  excess,  would  throw 
Away  the  anchor  used  at  sea ; 
Or,  rend  the  sails,  when  foul  winds  blow; 
Destroy  the  Needle,  if  it  dip, 
Or  give  the  crew  their  liberty, 
For  fear  of  mutiny  on  ship. 

uAt  Peace  would  hurl  the  blade  of  strife; 
For  Misery  give  no  redress; 
And,  having  newer  love  of  wife, 
Deny  a  Mother's  tenderness." 

"Ay,  Waif,  I  answer  to  the  first; 

If  these  have  served  their  purpose  —  yes. 

Bad  anchors,  cables,  compass,  crew, 

Are  reasons  why  so  many  fail 

To  reach  the  port  they  have  in  view  — 

Or  name  the  port  from  whence  they  sail  — 

All  love  is  truth,  and  not  accursed! " 

"  Truth,  granted;  yet,  the  Present  Age 
Lacks   reverence;   it   flings  —  Alas! — 
New  Creeds  in  one  incongruous  mass. 
An  ill-manned  ship,  we  put  to  sea, 
And  sink  in  chartless  liberty." 
45 


"  Dear  Waif,  our  views  are  but  the  same. 
Men  prove  the  virtues  of  their  creeds, 
In  noble  thoughts,  and  noble  deeds, 
And  not  in  calling  of  a  name. 
The  arrant  dogmas,  wise  men  hold, 
Are  quartz  indicative  of  gold, 
Whose  lore  is,  as  the  depth  of  night, 
Compared  to  God's  eternal  light." 

"  Look,  Walter,  where  the  Maples  throw 
Their  shadows  on  the  grass  below, 
Inclined  or  straight,  I  ever  see 
The  shadow  simulates  the  tree. 
So  Faith's  a  staunch  tree  rooted  fast, 
While  we  are  but  the  shadows  cast;  — 
List !  hear  the  wind's  soft  whisper  low, 
1  Life's  future  we  must  live  to  know,' 
The  twilight  deepens,  let  us  go." 
•  •       .     •  •  • 

Since  Waif  and  Walter  Leigh  were  wed, 
Two  dimpled  Springs,  with  fragrant  tread, 
Have  scattered  bloom  o'er  winter's  dead. 
The  currents  of  their  lives  have  met, 
In  mutual  joy,  have  blended,  yet, 
Each  heart  has  found  its  secret  strife, 
Each  hand,  a  labor  of  its  own; 
Their  human  trust  to  each  has  shown, 
Love  crowns,  but  is  not  all  of  life. 

Hope  joined  to  hope,   and  thought  to 

thought, 

We  leave  them  in  their  happy  lot; 
And  journey  to  that  royal  State, 
Where,  Nations  with  their  Commerce  wait 
Admission  at  her  Golden  Gate. 
46 


Her   mighty,    mist-draped  mountains   rise 
To  heights,  where  everlasting  frowns 
The  winter  with  his  snowy  crowns, 
Encircling  nature's  paradise. 
While,  bathed  in  beauty,  as  a  sea, 
Her  valleys  green  securely  lie 
Beneath  a  slumbrous,  summer  sky, 
Symbolic  of  the  great  To  Be. 

From  north  to  south  on  rifted  shore, 
The  pure  Pacific's  pulses  beat 
In  adoration  at  her  feet, 
In   adoration   evermore. 
Oft,  weary  of  sonorous  chant, 
Its  passion  scorning  all  control, 
Its  giant  tones  in  thunder  roll 
From  cliff  to  cliff,  reverberant. 

The  sun  gives  her  his  last  good-night; 
Such  loyal  worship  well  befits : 
For,  looking  sea-ward,  still  she  sits 
An  empress  in  her  royal  right. 

Full  fruitage  decks  her  garment's  hem ; 
The  riches  of  all  regions  rest 
Inherent  in  her  throbbing  breast, 
A  wealth  of  mines,  her  diadem. 
O,  fairest  land,  man  ever  trod ! 
O,  proudest  realm  of  youthful  fame! 
Pray  Heaven,  that,  with  unsullied  name, 
You  own  allegiance  to  your  God ! 

To  southward  in  this  sunny  land, 
By  fragrant,  tropic  breezes  fanned, 
A  cottage  stands  in  spotless  white. 
Its  green  vines  half  exclude  the  light 
From  windows,  and  the  climbing  rose 
47 


Above  the  door,  its  perfume  throws 
About  the  entrance.     On  the  lawn 
A  fountain  whispers  to  the  Dawn, 
Its  liquid  music ;  while  birds  trill 
An  echo  on  the  distant  hill. 
No  Winter  binds  the  Seasons  here, 
In  icy  bands  to  chain  the  Year. 

Here  Manah  dwells  in  warm,  intense 
Delight  of  life;  with  nature's  wealth, 
A  loving  heart,  and  rosy  health, 
And  gift  of  song,  and  deeper  sense 
Of  beauty  in  a  budding  rose, 
Than  blooming  Eden  could  disclose 
To  careless  eyes :  —  O,  joy  refined ! 
The  highest  attribute  of  mind ! 
Her  history  we  may  not  trace. 
Secluded  from  the  mart  and  strife, 
She  writes  the  story  of  her  life, 
Its  past  of  woe,  its  present  grace. 
We  leave  her  voice  the  tale  to  tell, 
For  none  can  give  her  life  as  well  — 
If  these  faint  outlines  we  have  shown, 
These  human  lives  in  Western  Land, 
Shall  reach  the  heart,  and  clasp  the  hand, 
And  serve  to  wish  her  better  known. 

The  sunlight  dies  upon  the  wave ; 
The  wind  rolls  outward  to  the  sea ; 
The  Day,  with  shadows  on  its  grave, 
Has  brought  a  sense  of  rest  to  me. 


